


Bound In Ropes of Sand

by eigengrau



Series: Girl!Will Graham [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Blurring of reality, Character Study, Contamination of a Crime Scene, F/M, Genderbend, Gore, POV First Person, Sex/Death Dichotomy, Will Graham: Sick Puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forts don't go up quick enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound In Ropes of Sand

**Author's Note:**

> If you're squeamish, you should almost definitely avoid reading this. Seriously. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Pennington sisters, Elsie and Paige, are sleeping in the room they share in their three-story house, six miles from the nearest town. They have slept in this room since childhood, and they rest in twin-size beds pushed up against opposite walls. They have lived in this house, alone save for each other, since their parents died two years ago.

I enter through the front door. The sisters do not lock it, and I know this.

This is my design.

I make my way up the stairs. I must be carrying a backpack, for on my person I have at least four lengths of sturdy rope, of the kind used to tie boats to docks, a fully-equipped tool kit, and two rags soaked in chloroform. The door of the sister's bedroom does not squeak when it opens.

This is my design.

I chloroform the girls one at a time, before they have the chance to wake up. I then drag them down two flights of stairs and into the basement, where I tie Elsie to a sofa and Paige to a chair. I begin my work with Paige, the elder of the two. She is twenty-two and I remove four of her fingernails before the screaming wakes her sister. Paige loses an eye, three fingers, seven toes, and her nose before I finally bludgeon her to death with a ball peen hammer. Some fragments of her skull splatter onto Elsie, along with some grey matter.

This is my design.

I spend longer on Elsie. When I am finished with her, she is missing most of her face. I let her keep her eyes, so that she can see what I do to her next.

This is my design.

Once I have collected both girl's livers, kidneys, and ovaries, I begin to clean up. I take a short break to harvest most of Elsie Pennington's small intestine. This is an unplanned theft, but I cannot help myself. 

I put away my tools, collect my trophies in a bag. I then haul each girl upstairs, one at a time, and tuck them into their beds. 

This is my design.

It is dark in the house, and Hannibal is hard inside me. I am pressed against a wall, held up by his arms, and inside my head I am cutting into Elsie Pennington's abdomen with a knife taken from her own kitchen. The kitchen whose wall is digging into my spine.

We are contaminating a crime scene. Hannibal is swirling his warm tongue around the peak of my nipple and Paige Pennington is losing her nose. The cartilege crunches deliciously under my blade and he is biting me, teeth just this side of too sharp against my skin. I want this, and he is giving it to me. Or maybe he wants it, and I am giving it to him.

I feel good, though I am not sure whether it is from the sex or the death.

A little bit of Paige is smeared across Elsie's cheek while Hannibal kisses my throat, strong fingers rubbing at my clit. Elsie is screaming, but her voice will give out soon. Paige is never going to scream again, I've made sure of that.

I can feel this, inside of me. The house slips in through my ears, through my nose, the smell of blood and Lysol strong in the back of my throat. It slips in as sure as Hannibal does, fills me up and makes me quake and gasp. 

I am in love with something and it could be murder but it could be Him.

"Tell me," he murmurs into the shell of my ear, and I do, as his fingers stroke the hair away from my face. I used to tell stories, when I was a little girl and my father and I would be sleeping in homeless shelters or motel rooms or trailer parks. In the heat of the Louisiana night I used to play at being the other girls I saw when we came through town, the little girls whose families had the boats whose engines my father fixed. I would tell my father about them, who they were, and he would laugh and ruffle my hair and tell me that one day I was going to be a famous writer, or a poet.

I wonder what my father would think if he could see me now- so far from then, but so close.

I tell Hannibal about the slippery feel of Elsie Pennington's liver in my hands, of how her eyes roll while she watches me pull her apart. He thrusts harder and I clench around him, so tight, so sweet. I tell him about how I wanted symmetry, how I took the same organs from Elsie and Paige both, but how I couldn't resist taking Elsie's guts, too. I like her best, I tell him. This is my design, I tell him. He looks into my eyes and I know that he loves me, and I think that I'm a little bit in love with him, as well. As much as I can love. If I can love. After all these years, I still don't know.

But he comes inside me, and Elsie Pennington stops screaming, and maybe that's enough.


End file.
